Tragedy of the Roses
by Katoptronophilia
Summary: When it's over, it's his job to really finish it. UK/UK, War of the Roses. Title could also be 'Death of a Rose'.


**Tragedy of the Rose**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia or Arthur Kirkland, those belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.

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It was almost like someone had set up a looking-glass on the battlefield, only he knew that wasn't true. Not only was it illogical, impossible, but no looking-glass, no matter how old, tarnished, or broken it was, could turn the bloody red rose of his House's banner the snowy white of the other's. No, the only thing between them was a few feet, filled with the smell of death, blood, and a tinge of resentment. The red rose of the House of Lancaster was victorious - they would be - and Arthur of York knew that. They both did. Arthur of Lancaster didn't want to admit, though, that he (yes, _he)_ had lost, even to himself. He didn't want to kill his other self.

It was his duty to do just that.

York, for some ungodly reason, was smiling. He had long since discarded his sword and had begun to remove his upper armor, to make the other's job easier. Lancaster hadn't noticed, not until just a moment ago. He frowned. Another difference between them. He was silent, though, watching his 'twin'. In that, they were the same. He wanted to yell, though. Yell and shout and demand to know why he was smiling with a death sentence hanging over his head. To grab him by the collar and shake him, shake him until he realized what was happening, what would happen. He swallowed the newly-formed lump in his throat.

"Brother," started York, softly, lovingly, almost. "I am ready." His words were spoken with that same gentle smile he had worn for the last hour or so.

Lancaster simply glared, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening ever-so-slightly. He had to swallow another lump, this one more stubborn.

York let the silence grow for a few moments before laughing a little, mostly to himself. As if there was anything to laugh about. "I said I am ready. Why are you hesitating? Surely, you do not wish to stand here all day? You wish to win, I feel it." While speaking, he had begun to move closer to Lancaster and stood no more than a foot away now.

During the speech, Lancaster had grown angrier and sadder, both at once, and was gritting his teeth and holding back tears.

"You say you're ready to die. Surely you don't mean it."

"I do."

"No warrior simply gives up, asks to be killed."

"I have, and am. For your leaders to be successful in their endeavors, you must slay me. I can feel your desire to win, so do it. Kill me and be done with it."

"You... You say it as if you've said it your whole life." His glare was less anger, more sadness.

York smiled again.

"I have, in a way."

Lancaster's eyes widened, just a little, before he's trying to keep the tears from falling again. He can't, won't cry. He's an executioner, for now, and he mustn't show any emotion toward the victim. That's what he told himself, though it didn't seem to be working.

There was another short stretch of silence.

Then, York had embraced Lancaster, much like a boy would his brother. He ignored the discomfort the other's armored form caused and smiled that same gentle smile of his, breathing in the scent of Lancaster, though it was tainted with blood, sweat, and dirt. He pressed a quick kiss to his twin's temple, holding him a little tighter for a moment.

"Now," he whispered into Lancaster's ear.

Lancaster hadn't moved or reacted while York hugged and kissed him. The momentary shock that passed through him at the single whispered word hindered him as well, but he quickly brushed it off.

Quickly and accurately, so as not to prolong York's death, he thrust his sword through the other's chest, through the heart. He removed the blade in the blink of an eye and drew it off to the side, not caring where it landed and embraced York. He held him tightly, holding him close, shaking slightly.

"Thank you... Brother." York laughed once and gradually went limp in Lancaster's arms, his smile still on his face.

And Lancaster was crying. Tears flowed down his face like a young river flowed through the mountains and hills. He sobbed and his breath hitched plenty and he felt the pain in his throat increase. He ignored it. He shouted, cursing himself, his House and York's, God, because he had allowed this to happen, and the world in general. His sobbing went on and eventually, he grew tired. He fell to his knees as if mimicking his tears, still holding York's body as it still held him. The movement had shifted the body, though, and the wound had smeared blood across his chest. He noticed this and became frustrated. Clumsily, using both hands but also trying to keep York's body from moving, he removed the armor from his upper body, making himself, once again, the twin of York.

The sobs and tears kept coming, long after York's wound had stopped flowing and the sun had set. At some point he fell asleep, still clutching the body of his twin. He still knelt in the dirt, resting his head in the crook of York's shoulder, the dead boy's shirt now soaked with tears as well as blood. From a distance, it would have looked like the gesture was being returned.

_'If only,'_ thought England.

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**Author's Notes: **War of the Roses. House of Lancaster versus House of York. Lancaster is the original Arthur, York is the one that was born from Arthur. I thought about writing a happy ending involving the creation of the House of Tudor (a result of the marriage of Henry Tudor, who was part of the House of Lancaster, to Elizabeth of York), but didn't. I like this ending better. There was a little research!fail with the armor, but I think I fixed it. Made it less fail, anyway. Also, their speech is probably way off, and that's my fault. I got my inspiration from this: ******http:// tinyurl. com/ onwv8y** (Minus the spaces, of course. Dunno why it's bold. :/ ) Show the artist your love, too! Compared to that, this fic seems like crap to me. ;c Oh well. Reviews are nice, but you don't have to. c:


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